Second Comings

"Look, I killed that kid. I completely lost it in there."

"Yes, you did. And you're going to have to deal with that, live with the knowledge that your own demons got the better of you. But you can learn from the experience, too."

"Something's wrong with out country, Secord. This stuff is becoming too mainstream."

"Wrong? Maybe, or maybe it's just change we're afraid of."

"What was that poem? The Second Coming? Something about slouching towards Bethlehem to be reborn?"

"Brilliant work," Secord said, "for a Nineteenth-century mind. But our world is changing so fast now, I wonder what he'd make of all this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, look at what we know now, just about genetics and biology as one example. The more genetic diversity an organism has, and by extrapolation, the more diversity a society has, the stronger it becomes, the more resilient it is to external destructive forces. And from a moral perspective, how can we claim to be a just society when we're willing to kill so many of our own children. Children who don't conform to one group's expectations? We kill off our diversity, perhaps our future strength, in the name of conformity to an absolutism many of us already question."

"I'm not sure I buy that."

"That's understandable. But change is going to come whether you buy into the idea or not, and history is a pretty good indicator that when religious absolutists try to hold back change the net result is only to hasten change."

"Don't you find the whole idea revolting, I mean..."

"I know what you mean. And accepting change doesn't mean you have to indulge in activities you find uncomfortable. I think it does mean we need to accept people who embrace change."

"Well, I'm a religious man, and I find it hard to reconcile..."

"Reconcile what? Picking up a prostitute? Killing another human being?"

Jennings looked angry for a moment, then pulled back. "So, you grading papers?"

"Yup. Final exams after I get back."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, but thanks for hearing me out."

"Any time. You've got my number."

Soon enough he was loading his bags in the back of the Audi, and glad he'd put studded snow tires on the little beast. The roads were ice-coated and a heavy snow was falling, and westbound traffic on the Pike was snarled by one wreck after another. He got back to the village well after dark, just eight hours before he needed to wake for his first class of the day, but as he pulled onto his street he saw Sharon Hasting's car sitting in front of his house, the engine idling, steam pouring into the air.

"Uh-oh," Secord said, the hair on the back of his neck now on full alert.

He pulled into the drive and stopped, and Sharon was opening the passenger door before he shut off the engine.

"What's happened," Secord asked, his heart full of beckoning dread.

"It's Michele. Look, Jordan, she tried to commit suicide Wednesday. Here's the note. No one's read it. Just me."

Part III: December

She was up in Hanover, at Dartmouth Hitchcock, but she was improving – or so Sharon related. She'd overdosed, then gone after her wrists for good measure, and would have succeeded had a student not dropped by unannounced. Paramedics got her to the local hospital just in time, but the docs there were ill-equipped to deal with the amount of vascular damage they found, and had her transported north as soon as she was stable enough to make the move.

Secord read the note once he was in the privacy of his house, and Sharon stayed with him while he crumbled in the aftermath. She'd heard about the incident as soon as it hit the campus grapevine, and then rushed to Michele's apartment and found the note on the floor by her bed. In the note Michele apologized for the harm she had caused Secord, blamed herself for the uncertainty she'd introduced into his life, and Sharon had filled in the blanks remarkably well after that. There was a long history of pain and denial on that page, and Sharon cried when she finished the note, unsure of her own feelings, and her own role in what had happened. Now she watched Secord as he struggled with his pain.

"What happened between you two?" she asked as she handed him a scotch.

"Enough," he replied. "But not as much as you think. I was pretty shook up after. Still am, I guess."

"Apparently she was too."

"I had no idea. I haven't seen her since August."

"Could I ask you a stupid question?"

He looked at her, shrugged. "Sure."

"Do you still love her?"

He tried to look away, but couldn't because of the sudden tears.

"I see," Sharon said. "Well, your last class is out at ten-thirty. Meet me here; I'll run you up to Hanover."

"I'm not sure I can go."

"You're going, Jordan. Be here, or I'll hunt you down and kill your ass." She laughed at that, came and gave him a hug. "You look like shit. Get to bed. I'll be here to get you going in the morning."

"Where's Dennis?"

"Skiing, I think, with his...friend."

"Oh, Sharon, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I've got you to take care of now, don't I?" She laughed again, then helped him to bed.

+++++

He had an appointment with the psychiatrist handling Michele's admission at DHMC, and was surprised when he was met by an ancient looking Chinese physician. The man looked seriously old, Secord thought, too old to be handling patients with such complex, volatile history's, but after spending fifteen minutes with the man he wasn't sure about anything anymore.

They talked, and after a few minutes with the old man, Secord handed over Michele's note, and he looked-on as the physician read the note carefully, before handing it back.

"What can you tell me about this encounter," the old man asked, and Secord spent several minutes retelling the series of events, including the most intimate aspects of that second night. The old man listened carefully, asked questions here and there but remained generally quiet as Secord led him through the affair. When he finished, the old man seemed genuinely puzzled.

"This second night together? You knew she was transexual at that point. Why did you proceed?"

"I'm not sure I know the answer to that question even now, doctor. Believe me, I've given it a good deal of thought, but all I can say is that there was something I felt when I was around Michele that was impossibly comfortable. I felt at ease around her, like I could tell her anything, but it was more than that. I was attracted to her. Strongly attracted to her."

"You refer to her in the past tense. Is that deliberate?"

Secord looked down, shook his head. "I'm not sure. I haven't felt the same way about life, about anything, after that night. I think I began to fall apart when I felt my inhibitions slipping away. She was the one who pulled back, you know. She pulled me back, kept me from getting so close to the edge. Still, when I thought about what happened, what I almost did, I came unglued. I was depressed for weeks after..."

"What you almost did? You mean being intimate with her?"

"I hope you understand that for a straight male, having what amounts to homosexual contact is a bit of a stretch, emotionally. Maybe that's too simple a way to express the idea..."

"Oh no, I understand completely, Dr Secord, but while your attitude may seem appropriate to you, you leave me with more questions than I had before. Why you chose to escalate this relationship, first knowing what you did about her, and also knowing your own feelings about such contact? It's very confusing, is it not?"

"Yes. It has been for me on many levels."

"You told her that night that you loved her. Is that correct?"

"Yessir."

"I wonder? Do you still?"

Secord looked away, looked out a window at low rolling hills far off in the distance. "The only answer I can give you at this point is that I can't get her out of my mind. I can't dream without seeing her. I can't walk to the car without thinking about her."

"That's not an answer, Dr Secord. That's an evasion, and if that's truly how you feel, you are indeed very conflicted. You ought to consider talking to someone about this, professionally. And soon."

"I see."

"Actually, I doubt you do see. You say things on the one hand that would lead any prudent observer to believe you had fallen in love with this woman, then you turned away from her, abandoned her, distanced yourself out of an alleged instinct for self preservation, yet you went into this encounter with open eyes. I'm sorry, but I hope you understand this makes no sense at all."

"I know. But you see, I was afraid."

"No, Dr Secord, I'm afraid you don't know. And fear? You feared an encounter of this sort yet you must have known this was going to happen, indeed, you encouraged the situation, then you abandoned this woman. Those are the actions of..."

"A monster. Yes, I know."

"Why do you keep saying that you know? Do you simply want to distance yourself from all responsibility? These are the words of a child."

Secord looked away. He looked at Patterson, and Jennings, and all the hate in the world masquerading as piety and self-righteous fury. Were we all still just children?

"I need to know, Dr Secord, do you want to help this woman? Do you care for her enough to set aside your own internal contradictions and reach out to her? Help her on the next part of her journey? I ask this now because if you do care, if you can reach out, I could use your help. At the same time, if you can't I'd like you to leave now. Leave, and never see her again. Do you understand what I'm asking of you?"

"I wish it was that simple..."

"But it is precisely that simple, Dr Secord. She is a human being. You either love her or you don't. You either accept her as she is or you don't. It really is just that simple." The old man came and put his hand on Secord's shoulder, looked him in the eye. "Love is a gift, doctor, but love, like many gifts, brings pain and suffering. Still, with pain comes growth. With love, I mean true love, there comes growth."

While the old man spoke, Secord walked from the elevator to his room in the Park Hyatt Hotel. He looked in Jennings' room at the broken, lifeless body on the floor, and he imagined Michele lying on the floor of her apartment, bleeding on her way to a cold and desperate death. Alone.

"I understand," he said, finally.

"I need your help, and she desperately needs your help too. But again, do not waste my time. Please."

"May I see her now?"

+++++

The last of his final exams scored, Secord turned in his semester's grades at the registrar's office and then walked home – as always lost in thought. Sharon Hasting's drove by, honked and waved as she passed, and Secord waved back. She'd turned out to be such a good friend, was such a warm hearted soul. None of this would have been possible without her help, without her daily support. It was almost funny, he thought, the unexpected detours life throws in front of us from time to time, and the unlikely friends we meet along the way.

He turned down his street, managed not to slip on the icy sidewalk once again, only now the lights of Christmas trees lined his way into the evening. A light snow was falling, and hints of smoke from burning fireplaces carried him along through memories of other Decembers, other Christmases now a part of the past. His history, his journey through time, had taken many awkward detours, but none so troubling as the past few weeks. He'd learned so much about Michele, and himself, and the unexpected byways the human heart takes on it's journey to love.

He saw a faint wisp of smoke coming from his home's chimney, and he smiled at the sight. He stopped at his mailbox, collected the few letters he found there, then walked up the steps to the porch. He stopped there and looked in the window.

Michele was sitting by the fire, a cup of tea in hand, looking at the Christmas tree the three of them had put up only last night, only hours after her release from hospital. White gauze still covered her wrists, and she was very pale, but he looked at her through the snow frosted glass and he knew she was meant to be with him now. There was no other way to explain this detour, this simple twist of fate, no way that made any sense, anyway. He accepted all that had happened, and the simple truth of acceptance seemed the best way ahead. Maybe she'd simply be a friend, he thought, or maybe a companion – or yes, maybe something more than a friend, but none of that mattered to him in that moment. He cared for her. That's all he understood, and accepting that had become the greatest gift he'd ever received.

He looked at her a while longer, standing out there in blue winter light. He looked at her through layers of reflections within the window, through all the layers of his life. Nothing had prepared him for this, nothing ever could have. Love came, now he followed. She was pure, radiant warmth, lost once – lost and found again. He closed his eyes for a moment, thought about the ferocity of love, the sheer, brutal honesty of real love. He looked past this moment back into the maw of darkness, into the cold hearted world of hate that waited out there in the night, that he knew lies in wait for every man and woman, then he turned back to the door.

Warmth and light reached out to him, reached out and pulled him back from the darkness, just as Michele ran into his open arms. He held her close, ran his fingers through her hair, and he felt her warm breath on his cold skin. What a gift this moment in time was, he thought as she wrapped herself around his soul. He held her, and he smiled at the thought of her saving him once again.

It was Christmas Eve after all, and she was home.

(C) 2015 Adrian Leverkühn | ABW